Clayson's Boarding School for the Gifted
by LaylaDivasa
Summary: Hidden away in the Sierra-Nevada mountains, Clayson's Boarding School offers refuge to many gifteds from all over the world. Peaceful, quiet… Entirely unaware of the impending calamity.    Five minutes to midnight—the clock's ticking.
1. prologue i

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-Clayson's Boarding School for the Gifted

-Location—California, "somewhere" in the Sierra-Nevada mountain range.

-Category—Juvenile case "asylum."

-Status—high alert.

-Notes: Juvenile department frequent "housing" for troubled, student population histories unverified.

-Details:

-A basic gifted boarding school—five years of schooling, power training, "basics" (sciences, social studies, mathematics, languages).

-Surrounded by forest, lake—level red alert: dangerous, "exotic" fauna. Average snowfall less than one inch a year.

-Architectural styles: courtyards—Japanese, Roman, Ancient Greek, French Renaissance.

-Known Gifts of Potentially Dangerous Natures:

-Demonic possession

End of file "clayson'sschool."


	2. prologue ii

_May the tenth  
Dusk; maybe 7:23 P.M._

_London, England_

Breath heavy.

Heart pounding.

Muscles trembling.

Tears spilling.

Sirens blaring.

Smoke still rising.

Yet she was still the one in hell.

Shouts—people were searching. She couldn't stop. Not now.

No matter how much it hurt, she had to keep moving. Her muscles seemed weak, as if they could not even hold her up when she was standing or sitting still. Her heart bled...

Figuratively speaking, although she almost wished…

. . . - - - . . .

The sirens, the shouting, the smoke, the discord, the destruction—it was all far behind her now. Physically far, mentally right there, surrounding her more than one would typically consider possible.

The worst part was still the death. The Death of Momentary Bliss... The Birth of Tragedy...

So much for album titles that actually had some iota of truth to them—Abney Park was way off.

The river Thames. Follow the current, find the ocean—basic logic. If you didn't know that, well... You probably thought Vietnam was in Africa and Paris in Canada.

. . . - - - . . .

_May the eleventh_

_Perhaps 8:12 A.M._

_Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean..._

Stowaway—

Just another charge to add to the list of things she'd done wrong in... a little over ten years...

Great...

Where was this thing headed again? America? How clichéd... old-fashioned...

Antebellum old-fashioned...

America: Where could she possibly go in America?

New York—nowhere left to go there.

Montana—no way in hell...

Michigan—hell... maybe first level... well, Detroit was...

California—never been to California...

West Coast it was. She could work the details out later...

Just as long as she got as far away from London as possible... plausible...


	3. prologue iii

_May the tenth_

_Dusk; maybe 7:23 P.M._

_London, England_

Ten years were more like ten seconds. Again and again and again—year after year after year—sometimes more than once a year…

Glimpses of neon green glowed out from behind the bottom hem of a dark tan trench coat, the rubble, the charred remains of books, the loose and wind-whipped papers. The sunlight was quickly fading from the scene of the crime, the destruction.

"Evangelle!" A rather irritated voice was calling to him from some distance away, but he barely noticed. Something about the area still being dangerous, needing to wait until they knew they wouldn't go up, too… He didn't care.

Experience told him he would be fine. How many times had he seen this before, after all? Eighteen? Not including the two before he actually got this job…

Eighteen explosions in nine years. No explanation, massive damage… and now three deaths.

The neon green Converse high-tops halted next to the edge of the crater in what had once been a school library, the coat brushing against denim-clad legs softly before finally settling. A chill wind blew past, sending shivers down the fibers of a slate grey feather riding on the current. If only his wings had been "optional"… if only the boy could have had them hidden away, where they wouldn't have taken such damage…

The feathers were everywhere, as abundant and dispersed as the ravaged books. Apparently, the only real reason anyone had known the boy was dead was the sight of them…

He knelt at the edge of the pit, smoke rising around him in shuddering furls in the nearly surreal breeze. Black bangs whipped into the gaze of deep violet eyes, but he didn't react. Amidst the debris, nearly at the exact lowest point of the dip, a glimpse of what was likely a hand…

Was this what it had been like exactly ten years prior? The night his family…?

"Evangelle!" The shouting voice was angrier now, footsteps pounding towards where he was standing from his crouch. "You idiot! Were you hoping to get yourself killed!"

He ignored the other agent's question, scanning the area with his eyes.

A glimpse of movement in the trees caught his attention.

"There!" He started running towards the spot where he had seen the shadow figure, barely noticing the agents and officers following after him, the hounds jumping from the cars as he passed.

"What!" The shouting voice was lagging behind, now quite outraged and past the speakers limits of tolerance with the younger man.

He slowed to a stop in the middle of the steadily darkening forest, scanning the area. A group massed around him, agents, hounds, and officers waiting for instruction. A sound—the river Thames.

"The river…" he muttered, thinking, trying to enter the mindset of his foe. "Follow the river!" he shouted in order. "He's following the river!" He ran back towards the scene of the destruction, pressing through the crowd as he spoke. Voices rang out in discordant choruses, "yes, sir"s, "go"s, and howls hanging in the air momentarily as the speakers ran out from under them, following directions.

He paused, staring at the location of the crater momentarily before turning away. They were already scavenging… He couldn't help but wonder how long they would hold out this time… Months, as they had with his parents…? Weeks…? Days…? Hours…?

Trying to shake himself, he walked away from the scene. Witnesses, friends, students, teachers—he would talk to anyone who could possibly help him finish this ten year game of cat and mouse…


	4. prologue iv

_May the twenty-third_

_Dawn, perhaps 6:12 A.M._

_New York, New York, USA_

Breath heavy.

Heart pounding.

Muscles trembling.

Tears spilling.

Sirens sounding.

Smoke nowhere in sight.

Yet, she knew she was still in hell.

Shouts—they were still searching. She still couldn't stop. Even if the shouting was for something she played no part in, she had to go before someone could recognize...

It hadn't stopped hurting—not once. Twelve days... Twelve days as a stowaway, running from an accidental murder... a murdered turned stowaway... now once again a runaway...

Her muscles still screamed. Her mind ordered her to rest—she might have time. But "might" was a chance she just could not risk. Her heart was still bleeding.

But it was still only figurative, for now...

. . . - - - . . .

The sirens, the shouting, the smoke, the discord, the destruction—it was all yet farther behind her now. Physically farther, mental all around with greater intensity... so much closer...

The worst part was still the death. She couldn't look at her hands—the blood was still too thick. Her crimes were still so fresh in her mind...

So much for a walk in a quiet forest clearing her mind.

The Pacific Railroad. Follow the tracks, find a train—basic logic. If you didn't know that, well... then you probably thought trains flew and you were looking for an airplane...

. . . - - - . . .

_May the twenty-fourth_

_Perhaps 1:42 A.M._

_Somewhere along the Pacific Railroad_

Hobo—

Oh, God... she was not adding that one to the list of things she had done "wrong"... not marring her already black mark that was her last ten years...

Great...

Where was this thing headed again? California? How clichéd... old-fashioned...

Eighteen-hundreds old-fashioned, both antebellum and after the war...

California: Wasn't that where she had decided to go? But, where within...?

San Francisco—so many people... someone could recognize….

Reno—no, wait... that was Nevada...

Los Angeles—oh, hell... in the Mayan thirteen levels... maybe about seven...

Sacramento—um, no...

But, maybe somewhere in the Sierra-Nevada... She might find temporary refuge in the mountains...

Just as long as she could leave London far behind... ever so far behind...


	5. prologue v

_June the first_

_Perhaps 7:14 P.M._

_Somewhere in Southern California, USA_

_Wake up…_

_Wake up…_

_Come on, damn it! Wake up! If you don't,_ He_'ll…_

Finally, he could feel his consciousness again—he was getting the upper hand.

'_No!_' The voice was not his, more growling. His body froze in its tracks, teeth ground and trembling as a whole.

'_You lose…_' he thought in reply, pressing his will power to its limits as he forced his consciousness forwards. '_You always will…_'

The hyena-reminiscent laugh of the demon echoed out of his mouth for a brief moment before it was restricted to his mind alone. His body was soulless for the briefest of moments…

'_I wouldn't be so certain about that…_'

When _He_ was the one giving warnings, only ill was to meet his eyes when he regained control…

. . . - - - . . .

_June the second_

_Around 12:00 A.M._

_Outside of a gifted hospital ICU building, Southern California_

"She should recover…"

He barely heard the agent's words, staring blankly at the ground before him as he sat against the wall, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his limbs almost limp. His breath was still heavy. He was still trying to ignore the feeling… the wet, hot, sticky feeling… the feeling of blood… everywhere…

"Ryou…?"

He finally looked up some at the agent's hand on his shoulder, the young man kneeling beside him. His gaze, as usual, resonated nothing more than concern. Ryou sighed, shivering a little. Even in the summer, around his home in California, midnight was typically freezing.

"You know it wasn't you…"

He didn't respond, unable to even move but to return his gaze to the ground.

Silence.

"_He_'s been getting worse lately, huh…?" The agent shifted so that he could drop against the wall at Ryou's side as he spoke. The man's gaze rested on the black, lightless sky above.

"Yeah…" he barely managed, so listless it had taken effort to simply muster what little voice he had projected.

Silence.

"James…?"

"Hmm?" The agent looked down at his name, a question inserted into the concern of his gaze.

"What happens…?" Ryou trailed off, working to bring up more voice. "What…? I-if _He_…? If, next time, _He_…?"

James' hand returning to his shoulder silenced him—he was free to leave the so very difficult question unsaid.

"Hopefully, we won't have to find out…"

_Hopefully…_ Ryou thought, finally blinking. "_Hopefully"… just like, hopefully, _He_ won't managed to hurt anyone so badly again…_

'_Aw, come on…_' _Him_—the last thing the boy needed to hear right now. '_She's not dead… yet…_'

'_Shut up._' The boy glared, clenching his teeth and fists, his nails nearly breaking the skin on his palms.

After some time, James was called away—for what, Ryou had no idea. He had been so numb to what was happening around him…

From 1:42 A.M. onward that morning, he was entirely alone… Well, as much as he could be…


	6. prologue vi

_June the first_

_Dawn, about 5:59 A.M._

_Somewhere in Montana, USA_

The Converse squeaked just a bit against the stone floor for that one step. Fortunately, the deafening silence and absolute emptiness was only broken for that one step.

It was amazing what nature could do in but a few moments. They had told him the old church had fallen to an earthquake—he figured it had been aliens or maybe Godzilla, considering how rarely they told him the truth.

His throat clenched at the memories—the last time he had been here, his parents had been lying at the front in two fortress-like black boxes… All of the apologies… people he'd never met, people he'd never seen, people he'd never heard of… His best friend staying by his side the entire time…

And afterwards… The agents…

Telling him he was all alone at the age of eighteen, before he'd even finished his fourth year of school… Telling him he had no other family on record—and he certainly hadn't met any in his life… When he asked about his sister… telling him they'd found no trace of anyone but his parents…

He paused, taking a deep, tremulous breath as he unclenched his fist. A small drop of red fell towards the ground as he continued forwards.

His greatest foe… a man he had never met, the one who had taken his entire world apart…

He found it almost unfortunate that praying for something ill to befall someone was frowned upon. It was the first thought on his mind whenever he had nothing else to focus on… nothing he really needed to focus on… That vendetta seemed to be his default mindset.

. . . - - - . . .

_Around 7:30 P.M._

He'd spent all day in that church, it seemed. He hadn't even realized…

He sat on the rubble-strewn steps near what had once been the altar, two small candles burning at his side. The stillness, the quiet, the solitude… this was a perfect place to think.

After ten years, twenty explosions, there were so few details… not even sketchy, general things—for instance, male or female… How was he going to catch someone he knew nothing about…?

…

Alright—that wasn't entirely true. He knew that whoever it was still attending school, so he was still under the agent's jurisdiction. He still had time to catch the guy and make him pay… make him suffer…

He shook his head—he had to keep cool thinking about it now, so that maybe he would be tempered to keeping his head when the time finally came…

The iPhone ringing broke through the silence and stillness, the heavy air, the thoughts and memories violently. He searched his pockets before finally finding the device, answering the call.

"James."

He listened to the frantic voice on the other end of the line, the sirens and shouts beyond that nearly drowning the woman out.

"Alright… Alright. I'm coming."

He hung up the phone, sticking it back into his pocket as he stood, walking towards the exit. California—that demon had reared his hideous head once again…


End file.
